


Totally Worth It

by kittercatters



Category: Actor RPF, Religious RPF
Genre: 1980s, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Catholic Guilt, Catholicism, Cocaine, Crack, Cults, Divorce, Drugs, Ghost Sex, Homophobia, M/M, Selfcest, Smut, Tentacle Sex (implied), The Author Regrets Nothing, Time Travel, a question for the ages, also mentioned are his two other ex-wives but i forgot their names, is it homophobic if someone calls his future self gay?, not beta read we die like shelley miscaviage, scientology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28555236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittercatters/pseuds/kittercatters
Summary: Tom Cruise screws the dearly departed spirit of the leader of his “religion”, complains about his ex-wives, makes out with his 19 year old self, and then complains about his ex-wives some more.
Relationships: Tom Cruise/L. Ron Hubbard, Tom Cruise/Tom Cruise
Comments: 13
Kudos: 4





	Totally Worth It

**Author's Note:**

> I deeply apologize to both Nicole Kidman and God.

Tom Cruise is not about to pass out, thank you very much.

He leans sort of awkwardly against a wall. Why is he here? He can’t remember. Is he on drugs? Maybe. All he’s focused on is the very, very strange and maybe glorious sight in front of him.

Wow! The prophet of his religion! In swirly ghost form! Wait. Thetan. It’s hard to imagine it as a Thetan though. He always imagined them looking more like an aliens, when this just looks like an extremely blurry silhouette. But this is it! It makes all of it worth it - the divorces, ditching his Actual, Literal Child, the loss of respect internationally. All worth it, for one conversation!

 **“AH. TOM CRUISE MAPOTHER III. I’VE SEEN YOUR ACTIONS. THEY HAVE PLEASED ME. YOUR COMPLETE LOYALTY SHALL BE REWARDED.”** The ghost says. It hasn’t really done anything yet. Just sort of standing there.

He’s finally done it! He’s proven Nicole wrong! She said when he started on this path that he was ““having a mental breakdown brought on by stress”” and that he ““needed therapy”” but who has the proof now! Not that he needed proof. Eyes and ears are unreliable, only the church knows what’s right. But. The point stands. Not that she ever knew anything, Her dad’s a _psychiatrist_! She has no grounds to judge him on. Ahem, not that he cares. It was 19 years ago. He’s not bitter at all! Love and familial relationships are a lie invented by psychiatrists to bait good, upstanding Scientologists away from the _right_ path. No guilt here. 

**“ARE YOU NOT PLEASED?”** The silhouette kind of.... vibrates, and dissolves into colors. Ah, this is what he was expecting. The ephemeral alien soul stuff, just like he’d been taught. He’s not drugged at all!

The colors dissolves into long, curling tendrils, reminiscent of octopus tentacles. Hm. He’s uneasy for some reason. He does not know why.

The tendrils, glittering a color Not Of This World wrap around him. He’s starting to get a bit uncomfortable, but hey, anything for LRH. The tendrils stray further down, and he yelps. Hm. _It’s not gay if it’s a spirit, I guess?_ He is immensely bothered by this, but it’s for the church, so why not? 

The tendrils undress him, less tearing off his clothes and more disintegrating them. Nice™. It curls around his midsection leaving sopping trails of... something. Everything was for this. It sends a shudder through him - 

**[This section of the story was willingly struck out by the author, as she viewed it too terrible for human eyes. She may choose to reverse this decision at her own discretion.]**

A lot of colors swirl before his eyes. It’s like a string of multicolored Christmas lights is enveloping his vision. Ah, memories. Suddenly, he feels like he’s walked through a door for the 98th time. Damn you, Kubrick. He feels a very sudden falling sensation. He is somewhere and he isn’t somewhere and his is somewhere.

Facedown in a parking lot, with clothes again thankfully, he haphazardly sits up against the curb. Ugh. What even is this. He really hopes that this is all part of some terribly done auditing session and not due to a rogue intern drugging his coffee again. Damn it, he needs to hire a better security detail.

Where the hell is he anyway? The sky is pitch black, and there’s a very red neon sign reading “MOTEL”. Located behind the sign is the aforementioned shitty motel. However, it is a _familiar_ shitty motel. Oh no. Why does he know this place. Wracking his memories, he stares at the sign. Shitty neon. What is this, the 80s?

Behind him he hears footsteps, and he turns to see.... oh no. It _is_ the 80s. The 80s version of himself. Oh god that haircut. The memory returns to him. 1982. Movie shoot.

He’d question the appearance of his younger self more, but this is somehow not the weirdest thing that has happened today. Tonight? Time travel.

There’s a good 30 seconds of very strange eye contract until he just turns and walks back towards the motel. “Nope, nope, nope.” He follows after... also him. “Hey, wait.”

Younger him turns around, and he notices his eyes are very bloodshot. He suddenly remembers the coke binge he went on on the set of this movie. Ah, well. At least it’s not Ritalin. 

“Oh god it was laced with something. Oh god I’m hallucinating. Oh god I’m going to die.” His younger self whines, having what is probably a reasonable response to seeing your future self drop into a parking lot out of the sky.

“You’re not hallucinating! I’m from the _future_!” He says without pause, having wholeheartedly believed that his soul is an alien since the year 2000. His past self looks like he’s going to pass out, which is a remarkable feat given the amount of cocaine in his system. “Anyway! Let’s talk!” He gestures to the general area of the motel. His younger self, on drugs, does a sort of shrug and decides that it’s best just to go along with whatever this is. 

The 19 year old with the extraordinary bad haircut unlocks the motel door, which takes him about 30 seconds given how twitchy he is. He flops down on the bed, which is extraordinarily average in almost every way. Oh. This was a time from before he could afford to have everyone in an entire hotel fired if they so much as looked at him incorrectly. A different time - one that he doesn’t like.

He sort of stands awkwardly in the side of the room, unsure what to do now. He picks up a glass that’s sitting on a table. The glass is empty, but he needs something to do with his hands. What does he talk about? Does he give his past self life advice? Of course, life advice doesn’t matter, because time is always and ever and always. But he doesn’t remember this happening. Wait does that mean they’re wrong? He should stop thinking about things like this. Before he can start another religious crisis of faith like he had in the nineties, his younger self sits up again and stares him straight in the face.

“If you’re me from the future.... well I don’t really know what to say. Just explain.... all of it.” He quickly summarizes his life, handily leaving out the wives, the other wives, his personal life, and really anything wasn’t a very bland laundry list of movies he’s made since 1982.

“Wow, I made it!” He looks ecstatic. Ah, he remembers how it felt. “Nice to know everything worked out all right for me! How’s the movie I’m working on right now turn out?”

He thinks. Normally he could get this, but he is very tired. When is the last time he slept? Never.

“The one with the prostitute?”

“The prostitute is a metaphor for capitalism!” His younger self squawks indignantly. He has begun to unravel his shirt sleeve.

He sighs. “It turned out good.” His younger self does a fist pump in the air. He can suddenly see an alternate future where instead of going into acting, he wound up going to college, ended up a frat bro, and disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

His younger self tilts his head. Having finished unraveling his shirt sleeve, he has moved on to picking a hole in his pant leg. He does not remember being this twitchy. He hopes it’s the drugs. “Hey, wait. How’s the family like?”

He shatters the glass in his hand. “Fine!” He smiles. He is not irritated.

His younger self frowns. “Do you have like... a wife or a girlfriend or something? I don’t expect this one to last very long given the circumstances but she is very pretty,” He pauses, as if contemplating the prettiness of his current girlfriend is more important than seeking advice from his future self. 

He grits his teeth. “No.”

“Awww, really? Never?”

He suddenly understands why everyone in the Navy wanted him dead. He really is capable of being extraordinarily annoying.

“I do have... some ex wives.”

“ _Some????_ How many?????” Tom suddenly remembers that he used to be Catholic.

Ah, Catholicism. The memory of terrible teenage decisions flows through him. At least he found a less emotionally repressive religion.

“Two.”

“Oh. That’s not that-“

“Wait, no. Three. I always forget about the first one.” She may have introduced him to The Best Religion, but she was also a massive bitch. Then again, all of his wives were massive bitches. See, _he’s_ never in the wrong.

“Why three?????”

“First one was a traitor, second one was a traitor who tried to get me to leave my Extremely Awesome Religion, and the third one was a traitor who ditched me and stole the kid.” He tacitly ignores the fact that he did the same to his second wife. The trick is making them sign a thousand non-disclosure agreements, so they can never say anything about you ever and you can just pretend it didn’t happen. Unless you made movies with her. Then it becomes a problem. (Who cares that she’s won an Oscar and he hasn’t? He’s not bitter at all.)

His younger self looks.... hm. He doesn’t know what emotion that is. Until he begins to tear up. Oh. Sadness! He forgot what that felt like, ever since he rid himself of unnecessary emotions to achieve True Enlightenment. This in no way coincides with his divorces.

“Uhhhhhhhh.” He doesn’t really know how to respond to, that.

His younger self immediately goes back to being cheery. “Love is not for me, I guess.” He does a sort of laugh, and then draws his knees up to his chest. He continues to destroy his pant leg. 

He states harder at his younger self’s face. Ah, he used to be so pretty. Well, he is so pretty. Age doesn’t matter, he is an immortal soul trapped in a flesh body who will live forever. This is in no way a mental cover up to hide his age related anxieties.

Young him looks up, and there is, again, a profoundly awkward half minute of eye contact. And then it’s a full minute. He really doesn’t know what to do at this point. Until his younger self looks down at the floor and says,

“Stop that. That’s fucking gay.”

Tom suddenly remembers that this is 1982. All his most homoerotic movies are yet to come.

“You’re literally me?”

“Still gay as hell. Stop.”

“Those are bold words given what you did three months ago.”

Young him gets a thousand yard stare. “Please, let me forget.”

“The tabloids _never_ forget.”

“Oh no.” He looks like he wants to die, and he starts to get what he can only call the “catholic guilt face.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” 

“Stop being so goddamn Catholic.”

And before he knows it, he’s making out with his younger self. 

Some very, very distant part of his brain ponders the morality of making out with a 19 year old, but the 19 year old is him and also he married someone 16 years younger than himself so there really isn’t anywhere else to go once you’ve hit rock bottom. See, he’s a Good Person. He donates to charity, even if that charity is sponsored by his own religion. No moral ambiguity here, folks.

This. Really is a thing that is happening. Ah, well.

Then his younger self pushes him away, catholic guilt face having returned once more.

“You know, this is probably a cocaine-fueled hallucination, but if it’s true goddamn. What you’ve told me about your life is kind of really goddamn depressing? I don’t want to live my life like that.” He pauses. “Also this is really gay and I should probably stop.”

How dare he! Well, that last part is fair, but his life isn’t depressing at all. He has enough money to do anything he wants. Except keep a stable relationship or family or leave a cult or do a lot of things but what does that matter when people know your name, really?

**Author's Note:**

> Leave the cult, Tom.
> 
> One day, I’m going to have to face God, and this will be on my resume.
> 
> fun fact i almost deleted this whole fic and barely recovered it. i definitely wouldn’t have written this shit again so it would’ve been a one and done deal. on one hand that might’ve been a better timeline


End file.
